


Deicide

by venomousOctopus



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (for all routes), A Lot of Crest Lore, Alternate Universe - Dragon Boys, Crimson Flowers Route, Ferdinand and Linhardt are Seteth's green sons, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, Gen, M/M, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomousOctopus/pseuds/venomousOctopus
Summary: "To see what you're not allowed to see, to do what you're not allowed to do: the duality of unbidden guilt and the rush of exhilaration in reaching for something immoral. I read about such an effect in one of the books father had banned, once"Ferdinand laughed, a hollow sound, so devoid of the bloom it had held for nearly a century. "Would you call our act a childish rebellion then, Linhardt?""Not mine, I have my reasons. I don't even know whatyou'redoing.""Sometimes I wonder myself. To turn your blade against the Goddess is the most immoral act one can commit, so tell me, is it more immoral to turn against the heavens, or your own family?"Linhardt gave a wry smile. "We have the unfortunate situation of doing both at once, don't we?"





	1. a scenery painted with a gentle lie

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU [@froggykind](https://twitter.com/froggykind) on twitter for this INCREDIBLE AU which i couldn't stop thinking about. Originally this was just going to be self-indulgent dragon shenanigans but thinking too hard about the logistics of stuff made this....a lot more involved than I thought it would be. I did take a few liberties, one being that Flayn is the oldest, with Ferdinand being the youngest, and that Flayn has a different mother than the other two. (There is a story reason for this, but ;) 
> 
> Also thank you @Abyssia for being my beta for this and also for bouncing a lot of ideas and the plotting. It made putting everything together a LOT easier!

The heady smell of oak and paper blanketed him with the familiarity of a thousand warm nights. His sister always talked of the ocean, the salt on her tongue, and the shifting sands warming against her soles. She spoke in a voice that betrayed her longing to return, the way the knights would ache for their bed after a long march from war. Sometimes he felt bad for her, but he could never understand her sentiments, not fully, anyway. His home had always been on the second floor of Garreg Mach, among the sanctuary of tomes and notes that nestled the entire history of the continent among them. Linhardt never saw the point of exploring like his siblings did, why waste time and precious energy when you can just explore them through the voices of ones who’ve already tread that path?

Of course, that didn’t apply to paths yet to be cut through. Although the allure of such things still tugged at him sometimes, between his father’s insistence on staying in the Monastery, and his own fatigue, it wasn’t worth exploring. 

“Oh, Linhardt, my boy, it’s nice to see you back.”

“Yes. You too, Tomas.”

A serene man, he was, but Linhardt saw no point in indulging him in conversations. The man must have been used to their short exchanges by now, and there was nothing the librarian could point out to him that he didn’t already know himself.

When Linhardt was younger- relatively, (if anything, he was much the same size, though his father _ insisted _ on him cutting his hair back then) he remembered Tomas as a bright-eyed young monk. He didn’t know his almanacs from his storybooks but smiled among the shelves like it was where his life was destined. He is much the same now- wiser, yet still kind, still bursting with excitement over any knowledge learned and shared, but there was a tug at his smile that set Linhardt on edge, and he couldn’t pin-point why.

“By the by, I believe your father has been looking for you.” Tomas interrupted in the still of the library, his brows scrunched together (yet it doesn’t look like genuine confusion- why-)

“Is that so?”

“He should be in his office, although I do not see why he wouldn’t just come get you himself.”

Linhardt gave a non committal hum, shutting the book splayed across his lap. An archive of all family members of the Gautier family, with specific notes on their crests and how they passed. He’d looked through it several times now, in the hopes that maybe he could figure out a pattern this time around. (He didn’t.)

“Don’t keep him waiting, he probably has quite a lot to deal with in preparation for the new school year.”

“Yes, yes. See you around, Tomas.”

Best for his own laziness, Seteth’s office was only a few short steps away from the library. When he stepped inside, he wasn’t surprised to find Ferdinand already there, bobbing on the soles of his boots impatiently. Before his younger brother could open his mouth, Linhardt put up a hand to stop him.

“Yes, I know that I am late. Let’s just get this lecture over with, hm?”

Seteth gave him a weary look, (one that he really should not be used to, but has been directed at him so much that Linhardt sometimes wonders if it’d give his father permanent crow’s feet), and sighed. 

“With the school year coming up, I’d like to go over certain ground rules with you both—”

“Again, father?” Ferdinand whined, his green eyes shining to match the frown he sported. Linhardt sometimes wondered about the logistics of using his brother’s face to buy himself some favours, so tempting was the pull of Ferdinand’s pout on any decent human being—

“Yes, _ again _.” Well. His father wasn’t a human being.

“Is there a reason Flayn is not with us today?” Linhardt had already sat down on the office desk, playing with the sleeves of the monastery robe. 

“Because this is a matter I do not well, I do not expect her to have trouble with.”

“Ah, so you already—”

“Linhardt, _ please _ keep your comments to yourself for the moment, this is serious.”

“Yes, brother, it is of utmost importance to—”

“Ferdinand, you are not absolved either.”

“O-oh.”

Another heavy sigh, one that betrayed the years of suffering of a single father of three. If it wasn’t for the blood that ran through their veins, Linhardt was sure the man would have gone grey by now. An amusing thought.

“Regardless, I would like to let you know that since students are to be joining the Monastery again soon, you two are _ not _ to accost them under any circumstances.”

Ferdinand quirked his head. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“It _ means, _ Ferdinand, that you can not go around lecturing the students. You may _ think _you are being helpful, but more than several have sent in complaints about you.”

The offence that passed across his brother’s face prompted Linhardt to snort. His brother may be several years— decades— older than any fresh-faced youth that comes through these walls, but his babyface ensures that no one could ever tell regardless. Proud recitations of the tenets of Seiros, memorized and spoken like a mantra, grated on _ him _ well enough, Linhardt couldn’t imagine how irritating the boy must be to the fledgling noble children that barely knew him. 

“Well I— I am just trying to set them on the right path! Like you, father!”

“I understand that, but please leave that to me and the other professors. It is our jobs, after all.”

“But is it not a waste to not push them even further?” He stomped his foot, never having grown out of the habit. “Garreg Mach is the cradle of Fodlan, father! All future leaders and the arbiters of history learn and grow among these cherished halls! We have the opportunity to change the course of history with every student we guide. So is it not our responsibility as members of the Church to make sure it is a bright one?”

A visionary, he was, always focused on the world ahead of him. Linhardt supposed that he himself was the one who would come to read the accounts and passages written by the ones Ferdinand guided. Or eventually, maybe. It would be admirable if Ferdinand was even half as worldly as he believed himself to be. 

“Yes however—” Seteth pinched his forehead, letting out a breathy sigh that dispelled his budding frustrations. His frown had turned softer at the edges, then: such is the blessing of being the spoiled sweet youngest. “Teaching isn’t simply making sure your students learn, but to connect with them and relate with them. If you can’t establish a foundation of understanding, then wouldn’t it come across as arrogant?”

“I—” Ferdinand shut his mouth, mulling over the words with his lip between his teeth. “...I think I understand.”

“Good. I am sure you will be a wonderful teacher one day, Ferdinand. I am sorry that you have to wait so long for it.”

“Nonsense! For now, I get to learn from the best myself!”

The soft chuckle from Seteth’s lips was one he expected, and Linhardt rolled his eyes. Truly a charmer, that one. If his brother ever saw fit to raze the world, Linhardt could bet a smile and a well-articulated excuse would be enough to have the Gods themselves fall over their feet to apologize. 

“And you—”

“Yes, I won’t preach to the students either, I promise.”

“I am not worried about _ that, _ Linhardt. In fact, you have the opposite problem.”

“Is that so?” He could already feel the coming of a headache, the dregs of drowsiness creeping at the edge of his temple. He could tune his father out, but it would be a pain to bear another lecture, so pinching his skin, he willed himself to meet Seteth’s eyes.

It was boring, so he ended up focusing on the wall behind him instead. 

“Your…. _ crest _ research. I need you to stop bothering the students with it. It’s bad enough to have Hanneman running around, but at least he _ tries _ to keep his more unusual requests at bay. I swear, he’s been an awful influence on you.”

“I do not see what’s so bad about it.” 

“Ha—” Ferdinand cut in, throwing his head back obnoxiously. “You do not recall when you asked that woman last year about a sample of her blood?”

_ Oh for Goddess’ sake. _ “How was I supposed to know she was on her—”

“-Let us not bring that incident up again. Ever.” Seteth cut in, so quickly that it would’ve been amusing to see the blush on his cheeks if he wasn’t in the middle of a lecture. “Or let it happen again.”

“Yes, yes, I learned my lesson.”

The footsteps coming forward put him on edge, as did the clasp of a hand on his shoulder. Seteth must have noticed him stiffening, because he immediately retracted it, and brushed his hair back instead. “Linhardt, I know it must be… difficult, to understand the students sometimes, but I need you to show some common courtesy and not simply _ demand _ them things for your curiosity.”

Linhard suppressed the urge to fidget, letting out an annoyed sigh instead. “I believe I am being very considerate. I’m saying my please and thank yous, am I not?“

“There is more to their culture than that! You hardly ever leave the library except to ask about the personal history of people you don’t know! I would not be so aghast by it if you were to actually attempt to make any friends!”

“I do not see your point. Once I get my information, wouldn’t it be far ruder to simply leave a relationship I had no stake in?”

“Linhardt, the students here are not simply books for you to peruse at your own leisure. They have their own lives, their own beliefs, their own histories, and their own burdens. I need you to understand that, and treat them accordingly.”

It was a speech he heard many times, Ferdinand beside him on more than half the times. On a theoretical level, it was easy to grasp, but any attempts to apply it was downright impossible. Each year blurred into one another, with the ball, then the graduation ceremony passing with one blink of sleep to the next. Faces came and went with as little fanfare as the falling of leaves. Inevitable, and yet inconsequential and fleeting. 

How can he be expected to remember, let alone care, for the lives of people that would remain for but a minute of his own life? He couldn’t see how Seteth managed it. 

“I will try my best” he lied.

“Thank you. This year in particular is a critical one, as we have the heirs of the three different ruling powers as our house leaders, so I need you two on your best behaviour, understood?”

“Yes father!”

“Mhm.”

The taste of papyrus in the air had gone dull now, and when Linhardt returned to the library, he let his eyelids droop and blanketed himself among the stacks.

* * *

The usual punctuation of events between the Lone Moon to the Great Tree Moon, cherry blossoms, inter-house feasts, assemblies held by Archbishop Rhea to usher in the new year; came and went as the bleary fog between his naps. The Great Tree Moon, if nothing else, was the perfect time of the year for naps, and he could spend the entire month in the comfort of sleep if he was allowed to. (His sister always scolded him for sleeping too much, and always made sure to wake him up with her little slaps. It was irritating, but the cocktail of fear and dread that shone behind her turquoise eyes, in her unshed tears, always dulled any harsh words he could possibly have for her.)

The timeline of events that would happen afterwards- the mock battle, _ another _ inter-house feast, some mission or another was swept in the winds of— change, if he was allowed to be cliched. The arrival of a mysterious mercenary as a professor would have been a minor change in the usual schedule, and even Archbishop Rhea’s friendly doting on her— (Byleth? Was that her name?) would have been a fun little quirk of an otherwise boring year. It wasn’t until he passed by Hanneman’s office, spotting the dim purple glow out of the corner of his vision, that his eyes snapped open, his heart thudding like he had just ran a marathon. So foreign was the feeling, that at first, Linhardt was sure he was going to die.

A crest. An unknown crest, by the looks of it. Yet something about it felt all-encompassing and familiar. He didn’t even notice himself reaching out for it until he heard the creak of the door open, and whipped his face towards it. The eyes he met look at him quizzically, and he felt like a child with his hands in the monastery sweets pantry.

“Linhardt,” Professor Hanneman quirked a smirk, his eyes twinkling behind his monocle. “I see you are interested in that crest too, hm?”

“...An unknown one. I did not know there were still undiscovered ones.” He tried to step back, dusting his hands on his robes. An illogical course of action, but one he couldn’t help doing for whatever reason.

“It’s an exciting discovery, is it not! I was looking to share it with you right now, in fact.”

“Do you know who it belongs to?”

“The new professor. A strange coincidence, yes? At first she saves our students, the Archbishop takes her as a professor, she’s Jeralt the bladebreaker’s daughter, and to top it all off, she even has a crest that no one has seen before!”

“Fascinating…” Linhardt bit his lips, his brows furrowed. An idea formed in the corner of his mind, and before he could stop himself, he uttered: “What class does she teach, by the way?”

“I believe the Black Eagles.”

“Hmm…” It was an illogical plan, but perhaps if he explained it to his father, use his own words against him, he could— he could. “Thank you, Hanneman.”

* * *

Linhardt made sure to have Archbishop Rhea within his presence when he asked. She, like the library, and like the pond out near the marketplace with the never-changing dock, was a constant for as long as he’s stayed at the monastery (several decades, with moments of respite in Enbarr or some other cities. Each time to get lost within the crowds of people, each time returning with a new hairstyle and christened with new names). 

Though as constant as she was, something about her felt disconnected, as if she walked on an earth a few steps above their own. For as long as he had known her, she was Rhea. Rhea was kind, and she was gentle, he could remember many a time when she would sing to him, the scratch of her nails against his scalp, the tickle of her hair on his nose. In the human sense of family, Linhardt could perhaps consider her an Aunt. 

Saint Seiros existed as an apparition, a being that was at once both Rhea and not. A lofty ideal, a prophet, a complete stranger, yet a walking encyclopedia of everything he could possibly ever want to know.

Though as much as he tried, any attempts to clutch at her truth bore nothing. It was as fruitless as trying to grasp mist. Intangible and ever-changing, she was both a pillar of strength for all the church’s followers, and as ephemeral and fragile as a butterfly’s wings. When Ferdinand would ask about it, Linhardt could never find the right words to explain. He could never explain her tender hushes whenever he asked what the Elites were like. Nor her plastered smile whenever he asked about what evil the Goddess blessed them to fight against. He learned long ago not to expect answers about himself, and so turned to research as solace.

There was a collection of books Seteth had banned up in the attics where Linhardt dwelled, taken before they could be dumped out with the history no one wanted to know. If they were allowed their secrets, Linhardt was allowed his.

Right now, her presence was an advantage, and when he asked Seteth to join the Black Eagles, giving him platitudes of “Your speech has moved me, father, I would like to try and truly bond with the students this time around.” and other such nonsense, Seteth, predictably, was against it.

Rhea, sort-of predictably, with her serene smile and unearthly air, laughed off his father’s arguments like a gale against some kindle. “This is new for you Linhardt, I imagine Professor Byleth piqued your interest?”

Her gaze was too knowing, but he quashed his discomfort, not allowing his chin to dip. “Yes.”

“Then I give you my blessings.” She turned to his father. “Seteth, this is a good opportunity! You go on and on about how the boy could never connect with the students, but you give him no chance to do so!”

“But Rhea—! You do not even _ know _ her! I do not feel comfortable leaving my child in the hands of some mercenary from the middle of nowhere!”

“She’s Jeralt’s daughter. It will be fine.”

Seteth grimaced. “You are being far too lenient about this! Consider my situation—”

“And I say he will be fine. If anything befalls him, I will take full responsibility.”

“What are you saying?! I don’t want _ your _ responsibility I want my children sa—”

“—Father?” 

Oh bless the Goddess for Ferdinand’s impeccable timing. His brother stood in the entrance to the alcove, his head cocked with concern. Somehow he always knew when an argument was escalating, and Linhardt immediately latched an arm around his shoulders, smiling innocently.

Ferdinand, predictably, gave him a look like he had just grown two heads.

“If you’re worried for us, how about if you allow Ferdinand to join as well?” Linhardt drawled, squishing his cheek with his brother’s to emphasize his point. “I’m sure between the two of us, we can keep each other out of trouble.”

Ferdiand gawked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Shush Ferdinand, just go along for now.”

“Linhardt, don’t drag your brother into—”

“Yes! A wonderful idea, Linhardt!” Rhea clapped her hands. “It wouldn’t do well for them to simply stand by in the monastery their whole lives, would it not? Experience is a valuable teacher, and I think that it is important for everyone to learn that.”

The steady gaze of three pairs of turquoise must have been Seteth’s limit, and after a beat, he threw his hands up with a defeated groan. “Fine. _ Fine _. But should we not ask Ferdinand if he wants this first?”

Ferdinand blinked. “Er, what are you speaking of, exactly?” 

Seteth muttered. “Linhardt here would like to join the Black Eagles. You don’t have to follow him of course, it’s your choice-”

Ferdinand gasped, pupils dilating much like a cat’s. “Black Eagles? _ The _ Black Eagles? The House with Edelgard of Hresvelg fame?!” 

Linhardt looked at his father with a smirk, letting Ferdinand go to cross his own arms over his chest. His brother was practically vibrating in excitement, and he knew that whatever protest Seteth could possibly have had now all but crumpled. Checkmate. 

“She is the future Emperor of Adrestia- _ and _ the descendant of Saint Seiros herself!” (Linhardt ignored the way Rhea’s smile tightened, just a bit). “If I could— if I could help someone like that, think of all the good I could do! The lives I could change! Yes. Yes. Absolutely, yes.”

How his brother remembered the names of all these people, he could never know. But Linhardt had never been interested in human politics. Regardless, he got what he wanted, and by the next night, they moved into the empty dorms set a ground below the nobility of the Black Eagles house.

* * *

  


Classes beget learning, and Linhardt learned that his Professor didn’t seem bothered by much. Most people found Linhardt’s unblinking gaze unsettling, and with an actual excuse to examine his subject of research at any time, she had faced his scrutiny as an ant under a looking glass. She never seemed to burn though, gently reminding him to study Reason this week, or to hand him one of the many vulneries she bought for their class.

He had also learned that his house leader was incredibly,  _ incredibly _ annoying. If his father was a chain around his leg, than Edelgard was an anvil strapped to his neck, scowling at him and knocking on his dorm room every morning to make sure he went to his classes. “I won’t go easy on you just because your father is a member of the clergy!” she always says, and every morning he wonders if he should just quit and laze about in the library without a 5’2’’ upstart hanging off his every action.

But that would require admitting to Seteth that he was wrong, and he couldn’t be doing that now, could he?

Beyond the minor quirks and observations of his classmates, most that he could not remember the names of, nothing he gained felt tangible, or even necessary. That was, until he was thrust into his first mission. 

Perhaps the most unfortunate thing Linhardt learned was that battles absolutely, most definitely, did not suit him. 

Blood is— was, never a problem for him. He collected samples from any student willing to donate, and helped many an experiment of Hanneman’s. He had even made a habit of visiting Manuela’s office for any discarded bandages before his father and Manuela cut out that avenue of research. Permanently.

Blood spilled on a needle or a scalpel, however, was decidedly _ not _ the same as blood spilled at the edge of a blade. Or in his case, the edge of a razor wind. 

Linhardt didn’t notice himself freezing. He felt a shove on his back— jolting awake, the ruined pillars and Zanado’s cliffs sharpening back into his focus, and for just a second he assumed he had fallen asleep. That theory failed when that classmate, (Cain? Was that his name? He recalled it starting with a C) looked at him with the most perturbed expression he had ever seen on him. It wasn’t until he felt the press of palms on his shoulders that Linhardt even realized he was shaking.

“Hey— are you, um, okay?”

The “Of course” on his tongue just didn’t seem to want to come out.

“Do you want me to get the Professor?” Canas asked, his blue eyes downturned with barely-hidden panic.

Last he recalled, Byleth was leading the charge. It would be a waste for her to come back, so he shook his head.

“Ferdinand… then?” 

Not right now. He didn’t want to deal with his brother right now. His brother and his spear dotted with blood, his proclamations of The Church’s justice and such— he grasped for Caellach’s sleeves instead, and it was a fine thing the shorter boy was so strong because standing has become too difficult now.

“Linhardt— hey whoa!” his hands had moved to Linhardt’s back, just barely preventing him from stumbling onto the ruins of a path. “‘S fine, we can just stay here. I guess.”

“...I would appreciate that.” He inwardly winced at how ragged his own voice sounded.

Humans had never been something he focused on, faces blurred in lieu of their crests, of the secrets they beheld in his ever-growing quest to find out the truth of it all. In the stark feeling of the now— gravel scratching his knees, and the azure hair wisping against his cheek, he found that he could learn to appreciate Caspar (that was his name, wasn’t it? He tasted it against his lips, whispering it like a mantra- Caspar, Caspar, Caspar) and the unsteady hand rubbing up and down his shuddering back. 

* * *

Like finally finding the corner pieces of a puzzle, Linhardt was ecstatic. The weeks of observation and theory (the weeks of fighting and bloodshed— and thank the Goddess that Byleth allowed him to just focus on his healing now), all seemed to come to a head when they stepped foot into the holy tomb.

In the beliefs of the people, it was the resting place for Saint Seiros. Both Linhardt and his brother knew that wasn’t the case, but they’ve been good at keeping mum about this for years now. That said, Linhardt never knew what was actually in the sarcophagus, and with the opportunity to research it, as a _ class mission _, no less, he was more than motivated for once.

Nevermind that their actual goal was to protect the place from getting ransacked. Ferdinand had suggested it as a possible target of their enemies, and Edelgard had begrudgingly agreed. 

He was never one for weaponry, that was his brother’s area of expertise, but tales of the sacred relics and their relationship with crests have always been an interesting topic of study for him. Not one he could ever pursue before, with every weapon in the hands of their respective noble Houses, and Rhea’s lips pursing whenever he asked her about it. It was a shame that the blanket of fog made it impossible for him to observe Catherine’s Thunderbrand last month, but the balance of fate had switched to his favour this time around.

The Sword of the Creator— he knew it _ existed _, of course. Theoretically. As Nemesis’ weapon of choice, he knew that Rhea had all but locked it from anyone’s use, and even asking her about it was a gamble he was never willing to take. He was afraid for his teacher at first. The sacred weapon grabbed so carelessly in Byleth’s hands, no crest stone in sight, the light of the lines he saw all those months ago shining for but a second when she whipped the blade against that poor mage. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Rhea had allowed her to keep it, but it only made the questions fester further, the chasm between him and his family ever wider.

In the solitude of the attic above the library and the carpet of open books, he crossed out his previous theories with a smile on his face. 

There were a few things he was absolutely certain of. 

One was that the Goddess existed. Exaggerated she may have been by Rhea’s sermons and teachings, she existed, and he, alongside Rhea, Ferdinand, Flayn and Seteth, were all irrevocably connected to her. And now, Byleth too.

Second, was that the stories told by Rhea were a lie. He knew it from the beginning. Seteth had always insisted her myths were to keep them all safe— because after all, what _ would _ the common people do if they knew of the existence of their species? No, it was far easier to explain away the crests as blessings from an intangible Goddess, instead of the tangible blood of his species running through their veins. It was logical, but something about the way she refused to explain anything more always felt off to him. And curiosity had always been his only motivator.

And finally, with the events recently transpired, with Rhea and Seteth’s pacing more than usual, their unease, the dread that clung onto their every pore, Linhardt knew that the great evil told about in the stories still existed. Whatever they were, and whoever they were, they still existed and held the golden key to every single question that nagged at him for over a century. 


	2. this everyday life that continue on forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good LORD Ferdinand was both really fun and also really hard to write, i would have written out more interactions between him+everyone else, but considering that most of it would mirror his canon supports already, I didn't really see a point. Just assume that the supports in-game go on as (mostly) normal between the different Black Eagles characters

Fishing was not time he thought well-spent. The still of the water surface, only occasionally broken by the shadow of a fish foolish enough to come forward, only made Ferdinand too aware of each minute that passed by. Linhardt enjoyed it, because he did not have to do anything for hours, save pulling up his rod when the occasion called for it, and Flayn enjoyed it, because nothing satisfied her cravings more than a fresh-caught Carassius. But he enjoyed the company of his siblings— mostly, so despite the constant tick and tocking in the back of his mind, he found himself at the dock regardless: his robes rolled up to his knees, his feet kicking waves against the docks and scaring away their afternoon snack. 

“I have to confess, I am jealous of you two.” Flayn started, her cheeks in her little hands, eyes following the bob and ebb of Linhardt’s lure.

“Whatever for?” he said, lazily waving his hand out, enchanting the lure so it could bob and ebb some more.

“I have asked father to join a class several times. Every year, in fact. It is dreadfully unfair that you two are allowed to do so.” 

“Well, perhaps it is simply there is nothing for you to gain from joining a class?” Ferdinand supplied. “You are far older than the both of us, and I have plenty to learn from many, as does Linhardt.”

“If that is supposed to be a compliment, I am not keen on it.” 

“It’s a chore anyway.” Linhard huffed, putting his hand in his chin. “The battles and the classes, it’s all a huge bother.”

“You were the one who originally requested it, Linhardt, so it is your duty to follow through for once in your life!”

“Yes, yes. I do plan on doing so.”

“Regardless, I still wish to have the opportunity!” Flayn crossed her hands in her lap, the perfect veneer of a noble girl. No one could tell from first glance that she was the oldest of the three, in part due to her stature, but in lieu of turning to their father, most petty squabbles between the brothers were resolved by Flayn herself. “I would like to fight alongside my classmates! See the world for myself! I can only stay in the monastery for too long before these walls start feeling like a holding cell!”

“I wonder if father would allow you to accompany us on some quests, then? The church requested some assistance in clearing a path for some merchants, and it would behoove us to take this opportunity!”

“Count me out.” Linhardt hadn’t noticed the bait dip below the surface until it was too late, and quickly flicked it out to hook another worm on it. “...Actually, Flayn, you can take my spot.”

Ferdinand scoffed. “Stop squandering the chance father took on you!” 

“Do not get me wrong, I enjoy every precious chance I get to observe our dear Professor. The battles though? Not so much.”

“I suppose I can empathize with that.” Flayn had turned to look down at the waters again, a faraway look in her eyes. In between their light conversations, there were moments when her voice pitched too distantly, watching a horizon invisible to them. It made it all the more self-evident how much older she was, all the secrets she hid alongside Seteth and Rhea and her persona as Saint Cethleann shadowing over her. 

It bothered Ferdinand in a way he couldn’t articulate, and it was easier to wave his arm in a flourish, banish such things with a grandiose spiel or two. “It’s a necessary duty to keeping order.” he said, and ignored the way Linhardt rolled his eyes. “‘Dare not harm, kill, lie, or steal, unless such acts are committed by the will of the Goddess!’ That is one of the five Commandments, no?”

“We are aware of what they are, Ferdinand.” Flayn giggled. “That aside, Aunt Rhea wrote that stuff herself, did she not? I do not think you are supposed to take it so seriously.”

“It’s just a way to explain everything simpletons can’t understand.” Linhardt wiggled the bait a bit. “ _ Much _ easier to keep them in line that way.”

Flayn gave Linhardt a withering look. “That is… certainly a cynical way of putting it. Though if it makes them happy, then I do not see any harm in it.” 

“Whatever the reason, I do not think it is so bad to follow these rules! The church has guided Fodlan for a millenia, and we have helped mediate the powers that be down more peaceful routes!” 

“You weren’t even around for most of it, Ferdinand.”

Brushing off his brother with a wave, he continued. “Nevertheless, I believe some semblance of order is required for true peace. If we need to cut down any foes who challenge that peace, then it is simply our duty, is it not?”

“I dunno, it just feels like…” Linhardt scrunched up his face. The bait bobbed down again, the fish on the other end escaping, again. “...An overbearing mother. If I was a human, and I knew the church was omitting so much information, I’d be offended.”

Flayn bit her lip, but said nothing. There was that heavy sense of unknown again, when the pond’s sandbed seemed to disappear, and he was a child who couldn’t swim: having grown none over the years when the children he used to spar with had long since grown into governance.

* * *

It was the duty of any noble, any member of the church, and perhaps all the people of Fodlan to pay a visit to the cathedral at least once in their lives. Or at least, Ferdinand sincerely believed so. The light always seemed brighter filtered through the windows, the pillars and pews parading the past while the holy hymns heralded the future. He always visited the statues on the side, smiling merrily at the artistic rendition of his father and sister, and ran his hands over the saints he wished he could meet. 

Most of his classmates didn’t seem to share this interest. 

Don’t get him wrong, Ferdinand enjoyed the company of his classmates. They were little more than fledglings themselves, and he enjoyed helping them in whatever manner he could, whether it be by escorting Bernadetta to their classroom, or making sure Caspar was held back when his temper flared. He doted on Edelgard the most, of course. She was to be the Emperor of the biggest ruling power in Fodlan! Everything she did would be blazed across the pages of history, and though she always avoided him with brisk walks and better marks, he knew that it was his duty to outshine her so she could, in turn, outshine him.

“Ferdinand, a word please?”

The shiver that slithered down his back was a common occurence whenever Hubert showed his face. Hubert tended not to, content with stalking behind Edelgard like a shadow, and Ferdinand tended to ignore the man whenever he could. He knew Hubert was the heir of the Vestras, but by nature, their role was subservient to the Hresvelgs, and so he saw no point in guiding him in particular.

“Yes? For what reason do I have this pleasure?” He hoped he didn’t sound too insincere, but the scowl on Hubert’s face told him it didn’t matter even if he did.

“I need you to stop bothering Lady Edelgard. If you do not cease immediately, I  _ promise, _ you will regret the decision.”

“Is it really proper to be threatening me like this? Saint Seiros said—”

“I don’t care what she said.”

Ferdinand gave a scoff (though maybe he’s overselling it, it was more of an offended little gasp), and glared at him. “You have— you have the  _ nerve _ to be saying such things in the cathedral of all places? You are lucky the Goddess is so quick to forgive.”

The darker haired man rolled his eyes, and it is becoming more and more clear to him that Edelgard had some  _ horrible _ influences. “This isn’t about the Goddess, or Saint Seiros.” He spat out the word like it was poison on his tongue. “You have no right to be challenging the Imperial Princess, not in the slightest.”

“I disagree. Everyone needs someone else to challenge them to grow as a person. Just as Edelgard strives me towards betterment, I strive to help her as well!”

“It isn’t your  _ place _ .” And perhaps Ferdinand was imagining things, but Hubert looked far angrier than he usually did, his face as white as the gloves on his hands.

“It would do you well to push her a bit more too, instead of laying down and following everything she asks of you.”

“Ha— Hahahaha, are you  _ joking _ ? You? A dog of the church? Asking  _ me  _ to— _ ?  _ Hahaha,  _ ha. _ ”

The twinge of hysteria in his laugh was more than a little unsettling, causing Ferdinand to subconsciously back up a step.

It was gone as quickly as it came, his voice back to the bitter growl Ferdinand had come to expect from him. “For all your arrogance and high-flown airs, you know absolutely nothing, do you?” Hubert’s lime eyes locked to his green and he suddenly felt like an insect pinned into place. “I detest people like  _ you. _ ”

His tongue was stuck to his teeth, becoming hyper-aware of his own fangs, the point of his ears, the blood running through him that turned to ice. The green of his hair felt like a target, and every instinct in him was yelling at him to— run, to get away.

“Do  _ not _ give me reason to follow through. You have your choice.” With the last word given, Hubert turned to leave. 

The cathedral felt hollow then, and Ferdinand gazed up at the stained glass window. A symbol of beauty and hope that had enamoured him since he first looked upon it, now only seemed to mock him.  
  


* * *

“Ferdinand, I worry for you.”

Flayn had since he was born, it seemed. It never bothered him so much before, but among the unease that had been hovering over the monastery lately, the whispers of a knight clad in jet-black armour, and a figure with a mask stamped with flames, it grated on him. 

“I will be fine!” Smile, flourish. The usual. “After all, I learned all my combat techniques from father, did I not? If any evil wishes to face me, they would have to contend with the might of the Cichols!”

The smile on Flayn’s face was too tight, and he wanted to plunge himself into the pond they frequented.

* * *

Crests were not something he thought about too much in particular. He knew they were the powers of his species in their blood, blessed by the Nabateans of a millenia ago. Edelgard held the Crest of Seiros, and it felt like a splendid joke to him. She and Rhea were  _ related _ , wasn’t it amusing that she couldn’t possibly know that? 

(Hubert’s knowing gaze flashed in the back of his mind, and for whatever reason, he felt the pricks of guilt.)

Edelgard had invited him out to walk tonight. The ghostly white of her hair seemed all the more shimmering under the light of the moon, and he used it as a beacon to follow her steps through the maze of hedges. 

“I know Hubert had been… more than a little callous to you, but don’t hold it against him.” Her footsteps stopped in front of the gazebo, a dull grey in comparison to her platinum.

“Ah, so you think so too!”

“He just gets… overzealous in protecting me.” Her eyes followed a trail of roses before it settled on Ferdinand. “Has been since we were children.”

“It would do you well to chastise him properly, Edelgard. How could he be expected to learn otherwise?”

She hesitated. “I don’t think he is wrong. It’s… tiresome.” 

There was a cloud of words Edelgard wanted to say brewing over her, words she kept shut and still behind her lips. Again, he felt the presence of himself in stark contrast to her. Her dignified air, standing on the edge of that accursed dock, watching him grapple for surface far beyond his depth. 

“Is that… so?”

“I think you have better ways to spend your time than constantly comparing yourself to me.” 

He thought of Flayn. Her sad smile, her well meaning words. Her statue in the cathedral, commandeering grace and dignity. His stomach twisted, a sudden desperation gripping his gut. “No! Edelgard, I want to help you!” 

He knew he sounded like a child, he found he did not care. “Carrying the burden of a whole Empire must be excruciatingly difficult! I want to help bear your burdens, so please, trust in me.”

Something in the air had gone ice cold, and he realized before he finished his sentence that he had made a huge mistake. Putting his foot in his mouth was not a plight Ferdinand was new to, but any situation before felt like a slap to his wrist, a gentle scolding. Edelgard’s complete and utter disdain for him was on full display in her glare, and she briskly turned to leave.

“...Edelgard?” He tested, and he felt like one of the worms on the end of Linhardt’s fishing hooks.

“Edelgard—!” He followed after her, because he didn’t know what else to do.

The blade that cut through his vision was an obsidian that stood starkly against the night greys, hitting his side and shooting a searing pain that blacked out all further thoughts. Mirages were supposed to show what one’s muddled mind craved for, against all logic, and he thought the woman that stood before him, hair flitting between the white he knew so well, and the turquoise he didn’t, must have been a sick joke.

* * *

Linhardt had shown him an optical illusion when he was old enough to wield a lance. It was from a book penned by some human born a few years after him, and already at the height of his career. Hours of staring at the complex patterns of circles and curved lines, overlapping colours that swirled if he didn’t stare at it directly, and it wasn’t until Linhardt explained how it worked that he was sure that the image wasn’t some mystical hex.

Something about how one’s eyes might take in an image, but the signals to one’s brain gets all jumbled, his brother had said. ‘Wasn’t it interesting? Your eyes can see just fine, but if it doesn’t make sense for your mind, it makes up the information instead.’

He was sure that the visage before him must have been something similar. After all, he couldn’t logically have known what his mother looked like. 

Flayn mentioned her having hair as green as grass on a morning after rain, bright and vivid under the light of the sun. 

Linhardt mentioned Ferdinand always used to cry in her arms, and she would shush and sooth him with the loveliest voice Linhardt had ever heard. His brother never made a point to listen to music anymore.

Seteth mentioned that she was one of the kindest women he had ever met. How much he enjoyed the quiet moments where they would take out a boat together, watch her man the sails as her white dress whipped behind her in the wind. He talked about his previous wife- Flayn’s mother, in the same way, and Ferdinand thought it odd that nothing about them seemed dissimilar.

The patch-work model of a woman that stood in front of him opened her arms. He wanted to bury his cheek into her shoulder, cry, listen to her hum the same three notes of a song (the only thing he was sure was his own memory). The lance in his hand felt too heavy.

He ran. The floor beneath him shifted and he was reminded of the beach. Something lapped at his ankles and he blazed past it, focused on nothing but the figure he so desperately wanted to know.

His mother put his hands on his cheeks, and forced him to look down. Crimson pooled out below them, pouring from her like sludge, and she smiled before he was pulled under.

* * *

Contrary to his brother, Ferdinand hated sleeping. He and Flayn shared the sentiment, it seemed, and it wouldn’t be unusual for him to wander the monastery training grounds all night, hitting the training dummies while Flayn watched. They’d chat about any small thing, she would show him a spell, or a lance technique, and they’d end up back at the dining hall for breakfast like nothing was the matter. 

In general, Ferdinand hated wasting time.

He had plenty of it of course, far longer than anyone should have. But the thing about getting older was that for every year lived, time seemed to quicken, until a month goes by in a blink, and history changes below his notice. It drew him to human politics, and he would voraciously keep up with all the goings-on of the Empire lords and counts, the Kingdom duchy, the Alliance nobles. It grounded him in a way, and connecting the students that filtered through the academy to the history they were the main actors of— well, it made every year more meaningful.

He couldn’t move, no matter how much he willed his body to. And ah- so this was a nightmare. 

Cloaks shadowing about, the ice-cold press of needles and knives against his skin- more blood. It was nauseating.

More than anything else, (fear, disgust, pain, anger,) he was frustrated. He couldn’t tell what was reality, or a concoction of his scattered mind. Everything centralized to blood: flowing across the floor, sticking to his filthy skin, the iron stench choking out the air, whether the backdrop was on a sun-kissed beach with a maroon ocean, or a stone-cold cell with runes he couldn’t decipher. Rats skittered about, and a part of him wanted to tear into them.

“You should withdraw from here.”

“I don't take orders from you…”

Funny, he doesn’t recall his dreams having dialogue.

* * *

Ferdinand sat at the edge of the dock he knew too well once Manuela discharged him. He should be glad that he was only asleep the month, that years hadn’t flashed by out of his grasp once again, but a nagging part of him just wanted to sleep the rest of the year (perhaps a few years). Flayn and Linhardt’s usual spots besides him were painfully empty (though that was his fault, he told them in tones too harsh that he wanted to be alone), and his knees were curled up to his chest. The sight of the pond made his head spin and his palms numb, yet he couldn’t bring himself to move. 

“Ferdinand...may I?”

Edelgard’s voice cut through the haze, and she was kneeling beside him. The presence of a hand hovered off his being, but the girl was smart enough not to put it on him. 

“I am sorry.” he mumbled, feeling the bite of his own nails against his skin.

“Whatever for?”

“For… everything. I should not have bothered you. Perhaps this was the Goddess’ punishment for me.”

Her eyes had gained that look of scorn again, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. When had he ever said anything right.

“Ferdinand, this isn’t  _ your _ fault.” The little staccato of her voice, it was nearly imperceptible, but he recognized it in the orphaned children sometimes. “You’re the absolute last person you should be blaming!” They cried in front of Rhea, who shushed them through all their broken apologies.

He wanted to cry himself, doing so in front of Edelgard, however, would only ever widen the gap between them. Instead, he curled himself in further, his green gaze frozen onto the surface. 

With how numb he felt, he barely felt the weight of Edelgard’s scrutiny. After a beat that could have been years, or perhaps just a few minutes, she murmured: ...You don't like the water, do you?"

Hearing it out loud, it felt like a betrayal. To their family’s trips to the sunny beaches, to Flayn’s taking his hand and playing among the coast, to Linhardt’s genuine smile of contentment at the edge of the dock, to Seteth’s attempts to teach him to swim, his arms always keeping him afloat. 

To his mother, always associated with the ocean, every memory of her drenched in it.

“I suppose you could say that.”

Edelgard looked at him then, contemplating something for a moment, before taking a seat beside him, pointedly avoiding dipping her feet, keeping it anchored against the wooden piling. He hadn’t noticed she didn’t have her gloves on until she settled a hand beside him, her skin marked with scars that mirrored his own.

“I hate the ocean.” she said, and Ferdinand smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you know hubert and the death knight had unique dialogue in the chapter flayn gets kidnapped? I thought that was really interesting


	3. this never-ending moebius ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, a bunch of stuff happened that had me keep postponing this and now its been almost a month since ive updated AAAAAAAAAAAAA Thank you so much for all of your nice comments also ;w; I cant reply to them bc idk what to say most of the time so regardless, thank you so much! I'm glad yall like my characterizations of ferdie and lin!
> 
> Thanks again to [Shade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abyssia/pseuds/Abyssia) for betaing this for me!!

Ferdinand going missing, in theory, should have been a blissful event. No more chatterings about his duty, even _ more _ common now that they stand on the fields of battle for Rhea’s various missions. Never would he have to deal with his brother’s stern glances whenever Linhardt’s Wind was cast a few seconds too slow, with a huff and a ‘This is their comeuppance, do not be so lenient on them!’ to follow it. He should be happy, take the opportunity to relax into the class a little, without his brother’s booming voice and aura stamping out any chance he could get to keep himself a mere observer. 

But no, this is worse. Far, far worse. The weight of eyes flickering over to his direction, by Byleth, by Edelgard, by his other classmates he couldn’t remember (by Caspar, who wasn’t even _trying_ to be subtle in the way he’d whip his head away whenever Linhardt looked back at him), was as oppressive as it was uncomfortable. Flayn and Seteth’s panic seeped into their every act, and facing them without mirroring their worry… well, he simply couldn’t either. His brother was missing for two weeks now, and all Linhardt could feel was a faint buzzing in his head and a deep-seated desire to lock himself in the attic above the library. He couldn’t even muster up the energy to feel guilty.

The last time he remembered feeling this- ah, was when their mother had died, wasn’t it. 

Still, no one was fool enough to protest when he dragged his feet straight from the classroom of the Black Eagles and back to his dormitory. For that, he was grateful, even if it was from the assumption he was too distressed to be brought into their usual activities. He opened a book he had snuck out, closed it, repeated the process- and closed it. Over and over again until the buzzing got worse, and he found it was a useless effort.

He really and truly hated this.

“Linhardt— hey?” 

It seems people were fool enough to disturb him still. He didn’t know what prompted him to respond, but one moment he was sitting among a scattered mess of books, and the second, he was looking down into blue eyes outside of his doorway.

Caspar flinched, which was unusual for him. Linhardt furrowed his brow before realizing that he must’ve been scowling. “Yes?”

“I just kinda wanted to check up on you? Maybe?”

“...Why?”

“Because you’re my _ friend _?”

“I’m fine. I’m sure _ dear _ Ferdinand will be back eventually.”

Caspar was distressingly easy to read, and no matter how much he tried to hide the incredulous look spanning his face, it was as obvious as a beacon. In a way, it was refreshing. Caspar was easy to deal with, comfortable, even, and he tried _ so _ hard to get Linhardt to feel even half as strongly as he did. 

(He should give up on that task now, really.)

“Are you seriously not worried about him at _ all _?!”

“No.” It wasn’t a lie, he supposed.

“What if he was captured by bandits? What if he’s dead? What if—”

Linhardt’s head felt heavy, and he slumped down on his bed. “If you’re so worried about him, why don’t _ you _ go look for him?”

“You know I can’t do that! Edelgard would kill me!”

“A member of her house is missing. Should _ she _ not spearhead the charge to look for him?”

“Um, I guess?”

“Ask her then.” he turned to bury his face in the pillow, indicating _ very _ clearly that the conversation was over.

“Ugh! I don’t believe you!” Linhardt heard footsteps pattering into his mess, and sighed. “You lock yourself away all day! You never nag at me about the fights I have, and you never even watch my training sessions anymore! I _ don’t _ think you’re okay, Linhardt!”

“Do you presume to know more about my emotions than myself?”

“Well, yeah! It’s not like you’re an expert on them yourself!”

Linhardt bit his lip.

Caspar immediately deflated, all bark and no bite, that boy, and he put up his hands. “Uh—, that was a little harsh, wasn’t it? Sorry...”

“Shush, Caspar.” He finally found himself irritated enough to sit up (though whether it’s due to the other or himself was a question he couldn’t answer at the moment). The rustle of silk fabric between his nails seeped into the currently too-small dorm room, second only to the soles of Casper’s boots shuffling nervously against the wood. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“Hey! Same to you, buddy!” 

“Then leave. It will solve both of our problems nicely, won’t it?”

“No! Are you—? No!!” Caspar stomped his foot and Linhardt winced. “It just doesn’t feel _ right _ to keep training when you’re locked up in your room like this!” 

“I never realized it was necessary for me to be present in your gauntlet spars with er- Leonardo, was it?”

“Raphael—”

“—Yes, him. Do you need the view of my sleeping form for your training? Because I really do not see how I contribute in any manner that benefits you.”

“It’s just— Ugh! You’re so impossible! I just don’t like seeing you sad!”

“Caspar, I’m not sad.”

“Then— _ this _ .” He waved his hand frantically, over Linhardt, over his messy pile of books, whipping around the miasma that seemed to hang over them both. “This, this… weird _ thing _!”

“...Please use your words.”

The frustrated keen that ripped through the room was one that Linhardt should have expected. Poking and prodding at Caspar yielded nothing but a tantrum, he’s seen it first-hand, a petulant rage that extinguished itself in their next meeting. Sometimes he wondered what Caspar’s limit is, or whether he ever wants to hit that threshold. 

“_ What _do you feel then, Lin? Huh? I may not know my words but you’re not even using any!”

“Caspar...”

“I don’t care if you’re sad, or angry, or whatever! Just yell it out sometime! It’ll make you feel better, I promise!”

“—Caspar.”

“_ What _.” 

Linhardt could break that threshold now, he thinks. A phrase so harsh on the tip of his tongue, a blade that would sever their fledgling friendship with one gash. It would be easier, he thinks, if Ferdinand doesn’t come back. (_ If _, like there was a chance).

Yet, looking at the boy’s face: his blue eyes an overwhelming mix of irritation and unabashed _ concern _, the pout of his lips, the desperate plead of an answer, it was impossible to say anything. 

If humans were books, a lifetime of history and experiences tucked away in the pages of their expressions and gestures, then Caspar was one of Seteth’s picture books. Simple, animated, and always ended with him feeling like he had done something wrong. It was at once both uncomfortable and nostalgic, vulnerable and warm. He reached out a hand to touch Caspar’s cheek, and they both flinched.

“Uh— Lin?”

The words that tumbled out his mouth felt foreign. “I don’t… feel anything.”

“Huh?”

“Sadness and anger… I feel nothing of the sort. You could say it’s an absence of such.”

“Huh??”

“It’s awful, isn’t it? Father and sister are besides themselves with worry, and I… am not.”

Caspar scrunched his face, and seeing it so close, Linhardt noted all the little nicks and details, ones he would never have noticed sitting behind him in class, or seated far away in the corner of the training grounds.

“That’s stupid!”

“Is it?”

“Well, you’re obviously feeling _ something _ in your own way, aren’t you?” Caspar looks around the room, smirking like he was making a point. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have needed to get ya”

“...Your logic astounds me.”

“No I mean it! Come on! Let’s go somewhere, it might make you feel better!”

“How would you determine that, exactly?”

“Just trust me, okay? Anything is better than moping in your room all the time. And if you just wanna hide out, it’s better to do it with someone else, right?”

Under Caspar’s unwaveringly hopeful gaze, the throbbing in Linhardt’s head seemed to fade, just a little. His hand slid from the other boy’s round cheek to rest on top of his calloused hand instead, light as a feather; a resounding answer.  
  


* * *

The fact that he didn’t know of this passageway-- Linhardt would consider it a failure on his part. It was true that Garreg Mach was constructed even before Saint Seiros established it as her base for that… religion, but the true depths of it’s secrets had always been painfully out of reach. Even his personal attic was only one of those several mysteries, only known by himself and Flayn who had shown him the exact ceiling tile to reach it. 

Between the soft glow of technology he couldn’t recognize, incantations and runes, contraptions of various effects scattered across the ground, it was a wonder he hadn’t been stabbed and left out to die many times over. Perhaps that was why Caspar was assigned to stay beside him as they explored, trailing behind the path that the rest blazed forward--

And oh yes, Ferdinand was found now, wasn’t he? The appearance of the Death Knight had all but confirmed it, according to Byleth, but that fact hadn’t clicked quite yet. Even with every step further into the underground labyrinth, passing every hacked off arm and splash of blood on a Res Tile. 

Linhardt shuddered, and Caspar tugged him along.

He would have loved to explore further, but they were on a time limit, and after one too many times Caspar had almost pulled his arms out of his sockets, Linhardt set aside his contemplations for the rooms ahead. In a whisk of time, he was already in front of the final room, that slithering man of Edelgard’s (Henry?) already readying a spell in one hand and a key in the other.

Perhaps it was dangerous for him to never remember the details of the battles, only the feeling of Physic between his fingers, the flow of light to his recipient, the rush of his Crest through his blood every time it activated. It was becoming second nature to figure out exactly when someone required his magic, and he never minded obliging. Every moment spent healing was one where he wasn’t crossing blades, after all. As per every skirmish, the battle with the Death Knight was over in a haze, and once he came to, his eyes focused on the teal-green mop that mirrored his own.

“Ferdinand—!”

“Halt.” Hardin’s voice cut through sharply, his gloved hand (so pristinely clean, it was unsettling) raised to stop him. “Dorothea already healed him as well as she could, I advise you not to come closer.”

Linhardt really should have heeded that warning instead of rushing past the man with a huff. 

The smell of blood hit him like a tidal wave, and he immediately whipped a hand over his mouth, as if it could even remotely filter out the horrific stench. Ferdinand’s hair, now that he could see it closer, was tinged with blood at the ends, so knotted and disarrayed from it’s usual coiffed style. Among the hastily healed cuts and slashes across his skin, there were little dots, barely big enough that one could mistake them for a mole, or perhaps even a birthmark, if they weren’t so deep-seated, as if the skin was scratched off everytime a scab grew over it. 

He was suddenly reminded of one of the pin-cushions in Flayn’s room, and it took everything in him not to retch on the filthy carpet.

That man must have shoved him out of the room, as the throbbing in his head intensified and he felt Caspar pull him off into a corner, his hand rubbing his back like in that valley all those moons ago. The last thing he remembered was Ferdinand’s body carried out in Hubert’s arms, a mark of crimson staining the tile with each step he took.   


* * *

The night after they exited that cavern, the comfort of sleep evaded him. He vaguely remembered Byleth assuring him that Ferdinand and Manuela would be fine, as would the other girl they found there (and it was so strange, he didn’t remember seeing her in the room at all), before leaving him to deal with his still-shaking hands and the images of bored-out skin branded behind his eyelids. In the still of the night air, the only sounds that broke it were the gentle stream of the pond’s mill, and the snores and purrs of the Monastery’s cats. 

Fishing, like reading, and like his crest research, was an activity that didn’t leave him pining for the comfort of his blankets. There was something strangely soothing about it, the still of the water, and the thrill of catching something after extraordinary patience. The rod in his hand felt _ right _, somehow, and he could feel the twitch of his bait, the pull of his string, as if it was an extension of his own nerves. 

Flayn inevitably always ended up at his side eventually. He couldn’t quite articulate why, but even now, with no bait on the end of his line, with no word of his location, in an hour too-late for _ anyone, _ Flayn was beside him, her gaze looking at anything beside him. He remembered asking her if it was a quirk of their crests, once. He remembered her giggling, and scolding him for making it always about such.

“You know, mother always liked fishing.” she said.

He didn’t expect her to speak. (He didn’t even want her to, after avoiding her and the tear-wrecked bags under her eyes for so long). 

After a sigh, he conceded. “Your mother, or mine?”

“I was speaking of yours but… now that I ponder it, both of them were very fond of it.” She kicked her legs in the air above the pond. “Quite marvelous at it as well.”

Linhardt hummed. “I _ know _ mother was good at fishing. How else would I be such an expert myself? Because of Seteth? Please.”

Flayn giggled, a little strained, a little careful, but it was a giggle nonetheless. “You were ever so keen whenever we went on our outings! Do you recall the marlin mother helped you tame?”

“Helped me? If she wasn’t there, you would have found me among the flotsam on the beach the next week.”

“Regardless, the feast following was ever so grand. Ah-- I wish I could taste it again.”

“Good luck with that, marlins are incredibly rare.”

“I _ know _ that! Am I not allowed to dream?”

“None of us would be able to fish it up anyway.” Linhardt leaned back, letting the rod rest against his knee. “...But it would be nice to fish in the sea, for once.”

“Yes! I could only tolerate the same ten specimens and dishes for long enough!” Flayn huffed.

“I am craving a good dab, chopped up and grilled in that sauce Seteth used to make.”

“Ooh absolutely! With a dash of fresh shallots!”

“Ah, don’t make me go hungry now.” 

It was almost natural now, falling back into the same beat of their usual conversations. As if the entire past month had never happened.

Yet in little things, in Ferdinand’s absence and how Flayn refused to look at the line, the damage was evident. He supposed even for beings like them, a month of wounds would still need endless patience to heal. And if it didn’t, if all the time in the world was just simply not enough to heal the scar left behind, Linhardt supposed there was nothing to be done about it. 

Flayn hummed a song to break the silence, and Linhardt flicked out the line to hook a worm on the end. 

* * *

Ferdinand was never at the dock anymore.

It was transparent really, every excuse he made whenever Flayn asked him to join them. Ferdinand was never the best at hiding his intentions, though perhaps that was because he never needed to. He only hovered around Edelgard now, and the snake-like man that tailed her every move. 

(He recalled walking into the infirmary to see his house leader by Ferdinand’s bedside. Edelgard’s eyes wracking his body with hatred in her gaze and her fists clenched so tight he itched to heal the welts she was leaving. When she noticed him, she had turned to leave, her anguish whipped away by the front of a prim and proper Princess.)

He couldn’t understand it. There were too many things he couldn’t. What would otherwise be a source of excitement for him felt foreign, a story he thought he always knew twisting before his very vision. He wondered if he ever understood Ferdinand at all.

Flayn hummed that same song at the dock now, punctuating their silence with it. It was familiar and distant, yet put him at ease in a way he couldn’t finger. He recalled Caspar telling him something, about how cats purr to soothe themselves in times of distress, and found himself humming along.

* * *

The fact that he was alive right now was a curse, that is what Linhardt had decided. 

Such were the flames that engulfed this village he didn’t even know the name of, the air pulsing with _ such _ familiar blood, people pointlessly and unabashedly gutting each other like sharks in a frenzy. All run together by the twisted smile of a man he had come to consider a constant in his life, sitting upon a hill, watching them all like they were corpses on an autopsy table. He wished he was asleep, he wished he was dead, he had half a mind to tell Caspar to let _ go _ of him and fall into the flames. But he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t.

Not when Ferdinand rushed ahead of him with such determination, with conviction Linhardt had thought had died in him. Plunging a spear into a rampaging villager with frank normalcy most people would have for trimming bushes or picking a weed, and immediately moving on to skewer another in full view of one of the panicking survivors. A cursory glance at his livid expression told him that Ferdinand too must have felt the thrum of his blood through these villagers, and wondered if he had any right to run when put against the horrors his brother must have went through.

Still, he had never been more terrified of Ferdinand than in this moment.

All the food he had eaten must have been thrown up among the sides of the razed village now. He couldn’t stomach the thought of replacing it, but fortunately, no one else had either, with the ride back to Garreg Mach strangled by sheer silence. Tomas-- no, Solon, vanishing into the wind among the ashes of homes and bones. They arrive back at nightfall, then to sleep, no word exchanged as they return to their respective dorms.

He expected to spend the following day (or weeks, but perhaps that was unrealistic), in the comfort of his room, but that was broken by the knock on his door. Less frenzied and pounding than the ones he had grown used to, he opened out of sheer curiosity.

The commoner girl (Olivia?) stood in front of him, arms across her chest and a weary look in her eye.

“Linhardt, I need your help.”

“Whatever it is, no.”

Her brow twitched, and she shoved a hand on his door to prop it open. “I’m not _ asking _. Manuela told me to go get you.”

“Is it really necessary this early in the morning?”

“_ Yes _ . And I would _ like _ it if you would simply come with me and not drag your feet so much.” 

She must not have liked the roll of his eyes, her scowl falling on him before she turned to walk out. “Clergymen, _ honestly, _” she muttered, under her breath like Linhardt couldn’t hear.

He didn’t want to be reminded of the battle that just occurred, but life was not keen on giving him that luxury. Manuela and that other girl had immediately pushed him to continue with their work, fretting about from place to place to ease the injuries and wounds of those left of the village’s attack. He never made eye contact with any of the peasantry, and perhaps they were grateful of the chance to stay silent too. Some of them would comment about how grateful they were of the Goddess, and of the Church of Seiros, and he’d catch that girl staring at him with a frown on her face.

“You don’t have to act so disgusted by all this, you know.” That girl had told him after they were both out of the infirmary.

“Whatever do you mean? This is all very messy work, it would be strange if I _ wasn’t _ appalled, wouldn’t it?”

“That isn’t— honestly, do you even _ care _ about these people? They’ve lost their homes! The least we could do is to heal them, just a little.”

“And I am.”

“Because I forced you to.”

“The act was still performed, was it not? Regardless of intent, they are not bleeding out, so why should it matter?”

“You really are just like every single one of them, huh?” the girl seethed. “Both you and your brother.”

Linhardt froze mid-step, turning around in the stairway to look at his classmate again. “What… do you mean by that, exactly?”

“Do you even know my name, Linhardt?”

For once, he was at a loss for words, and stayed silent. That must have told her enough, as she scoffed and walked by him, the frigid anger in her all the more chilling with the clicks of her boots against the steps.

It could’ve been his growing headache, it could’ve been the remains of his-- frustration? Boiling and churning within him no matter how much he tried to crumple the unease that clung to him since leaving that dreadful village. “If you must know, I don’t— I truly detest fighting.” He said, words leaving his lips unbidden, before she could leave and leave him feeling worse. 

“Is that so?” she sneered, her voice like ice. “Who truly does, I wonder.” 

“I would much rather not be involved in any of this at all.” he snapped.

“But battle or no, it’s still the responsibility of _ your _ faith to keep peace, isn’t it? Shouldn’t that include the people affected by _ your _ knight’s ‘peacekeeping’?”

A second after the words left her, she sighed, the anger dimming out to leave an empty sadness, one that uncomfortably mirrored his own. “I guess it might be too much to ask after the archbishop already took those villagers in. It’s more than they’ve ever done for me.”

She chuckled weakly, her finger curling the strand of her hair like it was an accompaniment to a punchline. 

It was unsettling, worse than the anger, in some respects. “How do you do it?” he said, too quickly, too loudly. 

“Hm?”

“You hate this all just as much as I do, yes? How can you stand being in the thick of it all?”

She actually seemed a little surprised by the question, and tapped a finger to her chin, humming. “I suppose-- well, I was always forced to deal with detestable things. Running away was never an option for me.”

She tapped her finger in a rhythm he couldn’t recognize, and Linhardt’s eyes followed the movement.

“Sometimes-- you can’t simply just ignore what’s happening around you. To stay ignorant is to say that what’s happening is fine, isn’t it? I’d hate to become a person like that.”

He watched the taps-- on-beat and off-beat movements, deliberate yet casual.

“I mean, of course it can get too much sometimes. In times like that, singing was the only thing that made me happy.”

For whatever reason, he found himself smiling. “You are… far stronger than I.”

“I know. But that’s to be expected from a sheltered boy of the church, isn’t it?”

The chuckle out of his mouth was sincere, and the girl looked at him like he had grown two heads. It was almost amusing enough to prompt him to keep laughing, but he cut himself off with a cough.

“Dorothea, was it? I was never quite sure of it, but saying it out loud, that must be it, correct?”

“Oh wow, I’m surprised you actually know it.”

“Just barely. But at least I have confirmation now.”

“It’s been what, 8 moons since we’ve been classmates?”

“...Has it?”

“How does Caspar deal with you, honestly…”

“I wonder that myself.”

Dorothea wasn’t wrong, he knew, and when she knocked on his door the following day, and the next, he didn’t grumble on his way back to the infirmary. 

* * *

Catherine and Byleth refused to lend him their swords for inspection, and Ferdinand still avoided him as much as he could. Flayn didn’t answer any questions about Solon, or Tomas, or any of them, and Seteth and Rhea were as immutable as ever. Working with the remainder of Remire villages’ survivors did well to soothe the unease that crept up on him so very often now, but his research was frozen to stand-still. Despite his insistence to Catherine that he would do anything to see his research through, he found himself stuck in a mire, unable to progress in any which way, and too afraid to challenge what was already so precarious. Before he could decide otherwise, he woke Caspar at midnight, and asked him to accompany him on a little field trip.

For now all he needed was assurance of another body, protection perhaps, and someone to listen to his mutterings-- understanding not necessary. With all that covered, Caspar followed him down the steps of their former instructor Jeritza’s room, and into the (thankfully empty) cavern beneath. 

(Recently having learned Warp, he assured Caspar that if anything happens, they could leave in a whisk, deliberately leaving out the fact that he couldn’t cast the spell on himself. Oh well.)

“What did you want to look for, anyway?” Caspar whispered, though with his natural disposition to speak loudly, and the echoing of the walls, it hadn’t mattered.

“Clues.”

“Geez, that’s specific.”

“I just want to find out more about that group. I have reason to believe they’re connected to the great evils mentioned in the Church of Seiros’ texts”

“Seriously? I’ve never even heard of the Flame Emperor before though.”

“Perhaps that’s deliberate? I wonder what Archbishop Rhea has to gain for hiding such information though.”

“I dunno, I barely remember what those books even say.”

They stopped in front of one of the warp panels, and Linhardt crouched down, touching the edge with the tips of his fingers.

“Don’t you think it’s odd? All this technology-- you recall similar tiles being in the Holy Mausoleum as well, yes?” Linhardt murmured, admiring the runes of the tile.

“Uh… I don’t know, dude.”

“I’m sure of it. There were tiles that augmented your defence, or your resistance against magical attacks. The exact same can be found here, and these warp panels! Who knows how many more of these exist in secret! Can you imagine it, an entire subsection of the monastery, completely hidden to all but…”

“But…?”

“That group… for whatever reason.” He stood back up, placing his chin in his hand. “I have a hard time believing Lady Rhea was not aware of this room.”

“Well, this monastery is _ super _ old, isn’t it? Even if she was the archbishop, there’s now way she would’ve known _ every _secret passage this place has.”

Linhardt looked at him, opened his mouth, then closed it. He did forget sometimes there was still that impossible gap between them, but luckily for both of them, Caspar never seemed to notice when Linhardt had slipped up. 

They managed to make their way back to the room Ferdinand had been kept in, and Linhardt ignored the way Caspar’s gaze burned the back of his neck. No one had bothered to clean the blood left behind nor the broken remains of furniture from that fight so long ago. It had long since stained into the carpet, and for that, Linhardt was a little grateful.

“Um, Linhardt, are you sure you’ll be okay?” Caspar asked, his voice uncharacteristically meek.

“If nothing changed for this long, then that means no one had returned this entire time.”

“I-If you say so.”

He didn’t really know what he expected to find, if he was being honest. Research papers? Used tools? A conveniently left behind diary entry? If a group that existed for millenia had been working beneath the shadows for this long, it would only stand to reason that they’d be especially careful in every respect. All his energy petered out of him, and suddenly Linhardt felt very, very tired.

“What a useless endeavour.” he sighed bitterly, kicking a stray piece of wood.

“No way! We learned a bunch about some… uh, tiles, didn’t we?”

“And what use is it to us?” _ To Ferdinand _, he wanted to add.

“I dunno, you never seemed to care much about that before.” Caspar put his arms on his hips. “Remember? You and Hubert had that entire argument about it!”

“It just seems… a waste.” Linhardt paused, thinking over his words before he spoke, steadily. “It feels… like this year is being wasted, after I begged father to join.” 

And after this year was done, they’d be back to their routine. He’d be back in the attic, the only change being without Tomas hovering over him with his (so so fake) smile and attempts to help. Caspar would be off knows where-- out in some military campaign, either dying too young or growing too old and out of reach. 

Linhardt wondered if Ferdinand knew that as well; he suddenly didn’t fault him for keeping such distance now.

He shook his head, to stall the increasing weight on his head. “Doesn’t it all feel like it’s moving too fast?” 

Caspar bit his lip, shuffling among the ruins with that blatant distress on his face. It always seemed to be levied at him, around him, and suddenly the jade of his hair felt too-bright and blinding. 

“Perhaps it’s just me.” Linhardt trailed off, grappling at the ends of his bangs, tugging on it to make the buzzing stop.

“No!” Caspar shouted, the echo reverberating off the cavern. “I mean-- uh, yeah! No!”

The look Caspar gave him was intense, begging him not to move just yet. Linhardt could tell he was struggling to voice what he wanted to, in lieu of spitting his thoughts out like always. 

“You’re like-- right, I guess? Once this year is over, it’s uh, over. Right?”

“...Yes.”

“It scares me too!” Caspar’s voice wavered, a hitch that he grimaced at. It was all the more obvious how young he was, how young they both were. A part of Linhardt wanted to lay his hands over the other boy’s fists. He didn’t, but his heart quickened regardless.

“It’s like-- if I don’t do all I can… well, I’m the second son, right? I gotta make a name for myself!”

“...I suppose you have no time for rest, do you?”

“Exactly! It’s-- it helps a lot, you know. With that kind of thing.” he kicked at the tile, rubbing the top of his arm. 

Training constantly, pushing himself beyond reasonable limits, waking up at ludicrous times in the morning and challenging anyone he could-- in the short lives they lead, humans always had a time limit. Perhaps Caspar was more aware of it than others, more desperate to do all he could before he was thrust into a future he had no guide for. Thinking of all Linhardt pulled him away from, all the battles the boy had to babysit him through, all the sparring sessions he was made late for, piercing shame rooted in Linhardt’s chest. 

“I think I understand you for once, Caspar.” He tried to smile. “I apologize for all… this.”

It was far too late to be sleeping away the time he had in hand. Far too late to face away from the realities of their battles, to the impending future and to all the secrets he always wished to uncover.   


* * *

An application form for the White Heron cup, a pat on the head to assure her belief in him, and Linhardt realized he may have made a mistake in asking their Professor for class recommendations.

“Um… you aren’t exactly the most charming person,” Dorothea had quipped, her drawn brows betraying her utter confusion by her teacher’s choices, “But I suppose compared to the other houses, there could be a chance…?”

“Seriously?” Caspar had yelled, slamming the table of the dining hall so hard that the cooks gave him a dirty look or several. “_ You _? Dancing?! I’ll be surprised if you even showed up to the competition!” He looked somewhat giddy by the concept though, a strange pride in the way he smiled. 

“Well… if the Professor chooses you, I trust her judgement.” Edelgard had said, a girl he barely recognized hovering behind her instead of the usual suspects. “Though I would still like us to win....”

“I am gladdened to see you participating in… something, at least.” Ferdinand had said, and Linhardt hated himself for waiting on a moment, for a lecture that would never come. 

Oh he knew the benefits of winning the competition. It was outlined in the tomes of military tactics, and of stories Seteth would regale about different battles. He had never been particularly interested in such things, but even he knew of the tales of great dancers-- the ones who can turn the tide of the war with a single twirl, and float through the battlefield as untouchable and fleeting as a wisp. Upon further thought, it was a logical decision. He would barely have to spill blood, and perhaps lessen his...unreasonable methods in battle.

“Right now you’re like… kinda like a brick, Lin.” Dorothea oh-so-helpfully supplied, sitting among a flower field a little ways off the monastery as the sun of their free day warmed the cool air of the Ethereal Moon. 

He held the training sword like Dorothea had shown him, (and he truly regretted not even learning the basics when he could, instead of focusing on _ horse-riding _ ), and ran over the dances he read of. Step forward here, draw back the left leg, keep your head steady, twirl with one quick twist of the ankle. Glide with your hands guiding, draw out the air with the next. It was all perfectly memorized, but when he couldn’t step where he wanted to, his hands stuck awkwardly in place, he really wanted to flop down and nap already. Dorothea’s _ incredibly _ loud winces whenever he wobbled in his form didn’t particularly help his attempts either.

“I _ know _ of this, theoretically.” He muttered, after another failed attempt.

“Well, yes, but dancing is just as much feeling as theory. It didn’t matter if I knew the steps if I couldn’t _ feel _ it.”

“Shouldn’t it be the same as weapon forms?”

“No. Anyhow, you need to loosen up a bit more. What songs do you usually like to listen to?”

In the awkward silence that followed, Linhardt turned his face away from Dorothea’s unbelieving stare. 

“Do you… not listen to music at all?”

“Not in particular.”

“_ Honestly _, no wonder!” she threw up her hands, exasperated. “Allow me to provide--”

“--_ That _ won’t be necessary.” He shuddered. He never had much enthusiasm for the Opera, as much as Ferdinand loved dragging him to shows when they were living a life in Enbarr. 

“Well, we will never get anywhere at this rate!”

“Get where?” Flayn popped up, her head cocked in curiosity. Before the question of how she found him, Linhardt realized he didn’t even tell her about his predicament. He inwardly winced.

“Hello Flayn!” Dorothea was suddenly far more chipper. “Your brother here is our house representative of the White Heron Cup!”

“...Really.” Flayn gave him a _ look _. Despite her petite stature, the effect didn’t seem any dimmer.

“But I feel like we’re getting nowhere. You’ll help him, won’t you?” Dorothea drew out her question with one of her signature drawls, perfect for baiting noble gentlemen, but not one she really needed to employ on Flayn.

Linhardt hadn’t had a choice. Not with Flayn decrying him for the opportunity to be in the White Heron Cup, going on and on about how she wished to dance on that stage, dazzle the judges, and such nonsense.

“If I was given the stage, I shall twirl like _ so _. I have formulated an entire routine, but alas, they shall stay nothing but a daydream...” 

Linhardt rolled his eyes.

“Perhaps I could dance it in place of you.” 

He meant it as a jest but Flayn-- oh earnest Flayn, had taken the bait regardless. And with Dorothea’s vehement agreement, he watched his sister dance. 

After a deep breath, she started humming, moving her arms down like the fall of a lotus petal, before picking up her pace in her steps, the beat of the music carrying through in the flick of her hands. He followed every dip and twirl, every slow pull and rapid shift, lulled by the melody. It was the same melody she always sang at the docks, the same melody he remembered in the earliest haze of his life. He hummed along all-too-naturally, and only stopped when she stopped, holding a palm out to him.

“Now brother, it is your turn to try!”

He held the wooden sword in position, and repeated her movements, letting the low whispers of the familiar melody leave his lips with each turn and slash of the sword. He closed his eyes, trying to blank out all thoughts to leave nothing but the song, thrumming in his every being, flowing through his arms and letting the wind carry them. 

It was almost like being in battle, he noticed, the natural steps, the instinct taking over. In comparison though, he felt-- lucid, the bliss of calm blanketing out the constant buzzing, the constant exhaustion. He opened his eyes just as they met Flayn’s, and couldn’t help but return the beaming smile she wore. 

“Wow!” Dorothea clapped. “You actually might have a chance, Lin.”

“Maybe. Though I doubt I followed _ every _step correctly.” He rested the sword against his hip, smirking.

“You didn’t. But hey, we’re getting somewhere!”

“It is simply a matter of practice then, is it not?” Flayn said, a fierce determination in her eye. “I believe in you, brother!” 

“Ugh, what a bother.” Though it was admittedly difficult to keep the thrum of energy out of his form, his feet still shifting from one leg, to the other. “I would hope the other houses do not try this hard.”

In the aftermath of his win, in the new garments Archbishop Rhea had bestowed upon him, Caspar had congratulated him. In the other’s earnest excitement (for him, for _ him _) Linhardt had reached for the other boy’s hand this time, and asked him to dance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, even though i made Lin and Flayn's song vague enough that you could input any kind of song you want for it, I was personally listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wxFlSc_jwSc) while writing the parts that concerned it


End file.
